23.Coiling Sparks

259 AC, King’s Landing

The Young Princess 

Was this choice any choice at all? Could she ever stay in the Red Keep and watch dragons grow, without ever being allowed to claim one? 

“Why are they caged, grandfather?” she asked instead.

Aegon’s face darkened. “There were six hatchlings at first. The sixth drakeling was a small, misshapen thing with its wings feeble and undeveloped. Its clutchmates pounced on it before I could even move, tearing it apart in moments. They have been viciously snapping at each other since, forcing my hand.”

Rhaella reeled. As if to confirm his words, the hatchlings kept growling and hissing and shrieking, not only at her, but at each other. Their fear, anger, and irritation were tangible, and their minds all felt fiery to her honed senses.

Were dragons fated for conflict? 

“At least now we have nothing to fear,” she said, trying to soothe the restlessness in her chest. “With dragons, House Targaryen is unmatched in the world.”

“Unmatched?” Her grandfather’s mouth twisted. “Oh, how I wish it were so. But the dragons are small still, spitting out wisps of fire smaller than my forearm, with their scales tender, offering no more protection than deer hide. They shall remain weak and vulnerable, and nearly two decades must pass before they grow in size and might that can crush armies and put true fear into the hearts of our foes.”

A chill sank into her veins. “Don’t tell me you mean to keep them hidden for now?”

Her grandfather gave her a wry smile. “You’re so much cleverer than your brother. Yes, keeping them hidden for a year or two until they grow out of their most vulnerable would be for the best. Right now, a single strike with a stick can shatter their heads.” He took a swig out of the flask on his hip. “It’ll also allow me to see which Houses are loyal and which fools harbour rebellious thoughts.”

“But…” Rhaella faltered as she remembered her dream. “I think our foes already know. I dreamt of it.”

Aegon’s eyes widened.

“Another dream?” he demanded, rushing over and grabbing her shoulders.

Rhaella tried to squirm out of his painful grasp, but the fingers only sank into her flesh. “It hurts,” she managed pitifully. 

Her grandfather jerked away as if struck, and guilt passed through his face before his kingly mask returned, all regal and dignified.

“Apologies,” he uttered. “But this is important, little Rhae.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in my dreams?” 

Aegon looked at her for a long moment with that unreadable kingly look that made her feel small before speaking. “You saw the wildfire explosion coming, did you not? Have you mastered dragon dreams?”

Dragon dreams? She knew nothing of those, but the Green Dreams ought to be no weaker. But did these details ever matter?

“Dragon dreams are not so simple, grandfather,” Rhaella lied, massaging her aching shoulders. Her grandfather’s fingers had definitely left a bruise. “I sensed danger, yes, but in my original vision, the great tragedy of wildfire would take place in Summerhal. I can see portents and omens and feel premonitions of looming threats, but the signs are rarely clear or straightforward. By luck, I managed to steal a glimpse at Maelys, but he’s protected by a dangerous sorceress. She sensed the hatching of dragons and advised him to spread the word and rally the enemies of House Targaryen to his banner.”

The king paled.

The silence stretched on as he glanced at the dragons with an unreadable face.

“Forget it, then. What will come shall come. It’s high time I hold court, and allowing them to see my dragons will lift morale.”

“So I can choose a hatchling of my own, grandfather?”

“Are you certain you wish to make this choice?” he asked, voice solemn.

The abstinence of marriage was no great loss to her; Rhaella had seen what married life could be and had long lost her longing for it. 

“Yes.”

“Go ahead, then,” he said, sweeping out his hand to the caged drakes. “Just know that the green-scaled one with white wings is mine, though I have yet to name him. And know that once you have made your choice, there’s no going back, and your fate shall be set in stone, with no chance of change.” 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Rhaella marched to the furthest cage, where a slender drakeling with gleaming pink scales and purple horns lay. 

“I’ll take this one, then,” she declared. Without waiting for a response, she unlatched the lock, pulled the iron door open, and took the squirming drakeling into her arms. She was no bigger than a scaled cat in her hands and just as fussy. “Her name shall be Thyssaria, for the coiling flame.”

Thyssaria let out a high-pitched shriek of approval, and Rhaella felt another connection settle in her mind, this one far stronger and more fiery than all the rest. The little she-dragon finally calmed, and Rhaella’s mind was blasted full of hunger and irritation.

Her lips twitched. ‘So that’s how it was.’

“They seem to be hungry, Grandfather,” she said softly, stroking Thyssaria’s scaled pink head.

“Alas, after they devoured their sibling, they have refused all food I’ve placed before them.” He glanced at the corner, where a platter of raw, bloodied cuts of meat lay. “Mutton, beef, chicken, fish—they won’t look at any of it.” His words thickened with regret. “The dragon-keepers are long gone, and knowledge of dragonlore and dragon-rearing was all destroyed by that thrice-cursed sinner, Baelor.”

Thyssaria indeed did not spare the bloodied cuts a single glance, but Rhaella already knew what her little she-dragon wished to eat.

“I think… they only eat well-cooked meat,” Rhaella offered. “Their flames are not nearly hot or strong enough to roast raw cuts on their own.”

“I see,” the grandfather murmured, brows furrowing as he studied the dragons again. “It’s certainly worth a try. Go now, and be careful—the eyes shall all fall onto House Targaryen from now on, though this is a good way as any to announce the presence of dragons to the realm. I’ll send Ser Gerold to guard you again.”

She dipped her head in gratitude. “Grandfather… when will the funeral be held?”

Something dark passed through the king’s face. “I already gave their bodies to the fire, and their ashes are on the way to Dragonstone. Go now.”

Rhaella knew a dismissal when she heard now. Even though she wanted to ask more, the topic was firmly closed. She dipped in one final curtsy and turned to leave.

Just as she pushed the door open, he called out coldly, “And tell Aerys if he wishes to remain despondent, he may do so, but I shall then be forced to remarry. He has three days.”

Rhaella enjoyed the countless looks of surprise, this time not aimed at her but at the drakeling that was now settled on top of her head. Thyssaria’s big purple eyes blinked with curiosity at everything and everyone, and in turn, attracted the stunned gazes of the courtiers and guardsmen wherever they passed. Hushed whispers and pointed fingers followed in her wake, but she paid them no heed.

If the dragons couldn’t be hidden, they might as well show them off. Dragons were a source of prestige and power for House Targaryen; even if they were as big as a starving cat, they would only grow larger in the future. 

It was a clever tactic.

By displaying them now, everyone who wished to oppose the House of the Dragon would come out and do so if they were not fools. Every week, every month, dragons would grow bigger and more dangerous, and would be increasingly difficult to deal with. Rhaella’s knowledge of dragonlore was no better than her grandfather’s, but from history, she knew a two-decade-old dragon would be nigh invincible on the battlefield. By then, arrows would bounce off their scales, and even scorpion bolts wouldn’t do much harm.

But precisely because of that, the threat to House Targaryen was at its greatest now. Otherwise, her grandfather might have never allowed her to claim a dragon without marrying Aerys. 

Aegon was nearly nine and fifty now, and he would grow slower and weaker as he aged. Cousin Maegor… was far from trustworthy, and allowing him a dragon might only spark his ambitions to press his claim for the Iron Throne. Then, there was her brother. Aerys was crippled, and whether he could ride a dragon without his legs in the future was a great question, let alone lead men into battle. It was unknown whether he would have children, and if so, when those children would be born, thus making Rhaella the only suitable dragonrider in the royal family in the near future. 

It was an open scheme—allow her to claim a dragon and use it to defend the royal family, and in turn, she would have to abstain from marriage and children. As for having some man of lesser house wed into House Targaryen through her?

Would such a man even be worthy?

Even if he were, her grandsire no doubt feared that if she had children of her own, she would use her power and influence to help them raise. And the only place to rise for the royal kinsmen was the Iron Throne. The king had the right of it—Rhaella could not guarantee any children of hers would lack ambition.

Though it went unsaid, she suspected that she would be allowed to do whatever she wished, so long as the conditions were kept… and she didn’t tarnish the royal prestige. 

It was all the freedom she had longed for… but why didn’t she feel happy?

Her grandfather had played her like a fiddle in that meeting, she thought bitterly. Had the questions of her heirship been a test, too?

The king was far from simple. His thoughts were harder to glean than ever before. Had he suspected her of being behind the wildfire?

The joy of claiming the dragon had long since cooled by the time she reached the kitchens and fed Thyssaria.

Next, she turned her footsteps to her brother’s quarters. The door was guarded by Ser Rolland, and he gave her a curt nod, not sparing the drakeling a glance, before stepping aside.

All the kingsguard knew of the dragons, then.

She was struck by the thick smell of herbs and poultice, and found her brother lying on the bed. Sure enough, his legs ended just below the knees, now wrapped in a thick linen bandage. 

He made no move to lift himself up or even spare a glance at the door.

“Bring the food to the table and leave,” he croaked out.

“I am not a serving maid, brother,” Rhaella said softly. 

“Leave,” he repeated, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Bitterness welled up in her. Was that all her brother was willing to say to her?

But she understood. Aerys was no less bitter now that he had lost his ability to walk. Even though the finest fake legs could be crafted for her brother, they would never be half as good as the real thing. Riding would be a struggle, and fighting was out of the question.

No matter what she, a person who survived unharmed, said to her brother now, it would sound hollow in his ears.

“Grandfather bade me come here with a message,” she said directly. “Should you continue like this for three more days, he’ll have to remarry.”

“Continue like this?!” Aerys erupted, lifting himself and glaring at her with bloodshot eyes. “Do you think I wish my legs weren’t burned away?”

“I…” Rhaella’s throat tightened. She wanted to tell him how everything would be fine, but the words rang empty even in her own mind. “I’m sorry. You can still claim a dragon…”

His mouth twisted as he finally saw the dragon. “A dragon?” he murmured. For a brief moment, his eyes were filled with wonder and hope, but then they dimmed again. “I used to long for a dragon. But what good will it do me now?” 

Aerys collapsed back on his bed like a puppet with its strings cut and continued staring blankly at the ceiling, refusing to acknowledge her presence further. 

Rhaella fled the room, tears stinging her eyes. She hated seeing her brother like this, so helpless, so lifeless, as if he were nothing more than an empty husk. 

And then, her mind returned to that green fire that had given her a taste of death, that green inferno that had orphaned her and taken away her uncle and grandmother and too many more.

The royal criers had spread the word that it was Blackfyre’s doing, the whole court claimed the same, though her grandfather… had neither confirmed nor denied. If Blackfyre was the culprit, a confirmation would be an easy, straightforward thing to do, and Rhaella had seen Maelys in the dream. As brutish and misshapen as this Blackfyre pretender was, he was straightforward, a warrior to the bone, a man who disdained petty schemes. They had not mentioned wildfire in their talk, nor did it serve them any purpose.

No, this had to be someone else’s plot, someone closer. 

Our time shall come. We just need to lie low for a while, and the chance shall deliver itself on a silver platter. 

It was that very same schemer who had killed Septon Manton and her raven. It had to be. 

Damn it!  

If her uncle hadn’t ignored it…

Or no, perhaps it was the schemer who had hidden too deeply. 

But one thing was for certain. That hidden plotter was far more dangerous than she thought, and her family was clearly unable to deal with him. 

Something had to be done, and this time, she would no longer hesitate. She had no reason, now that her future was tied to the Red Keep for good.  

But as skilled a skinchanger Rhaella was, acting alone had yielded little result, and it might not fare better in the future. That inn was a good start, but it was far from enough.

She needed more. Not a simple group or gathering, but tangible power she could grasp, power and prestige that would make her too important to ignore. Power that would give her the means to act in her own name. 

As a dragonrider, her grandfather would surely not begrudge her the making of her own faction in court.

259 AC, the Riverlands

The Wandering Bastard

The sprawling hills and twisting streams stretched across every direction, dotted with fields of golden wheat—the Riverlands were majestic in their own right and twice as prosperous as the North. The roads were overflowing with merchants, peddlers, and other travellers; each hill had a herd of sheep or auroch grazing over it, each field had men toiling over wheat and barley, and every creek and river was crowded by fishermen and boats, if they were sizeable enough.

“My ma would never believe this.”

Tormund saw more souls in a handful of days than all his life beyond the Wall. Jon was also surprised, but he did not show it—he had already expected it all. If anything, he kept his hood pulled over his face, protecting his sensitive pale skin from the sun. 

Sometimes, the kingsroad would split into smaller tracks, quite possibly because of past floods. Up the overgrown hills to the east, Jon even caught a glimpse of movement. With Shadow and Bark, his newly named owl, avoiding a few bandits and knights with ill intent hiding along the overgrown hunter’s paths and rocky overhangs was easy. 

With every day they travelled south, the air turned warmer despite the looming Mountains of the Moon to their left, and something in the air changed. It was not the heat nor any particular smell or anything that Jon’s sharp senses could catch, but something far more fleeting, far more ethereal. Uncertain how to face the change, he had opted to forgo all garments and meditate under the cool caress of the rain. After two hours, he could tell something deep inside his body had begun to stir, and his blood had become restless, but Jon couldn’t pinpoint any further change. Skinchanging came easier to him; his mind could now control fifteen beasts for longer and at a larger distance than before.  

They rode hard down the kingsroad for a fortnight until they gradually approached the Trident. Jon had kept a relentless tempo and even managed to exchange the stolen horses once they left the Frey lands. It was surprisingly simple enough, and nobody cared about the botched marks.

Tormund kept complaining about sleeping in the hedges, and Jon finally relented on the seventh day. 

They stopped for the night at an inn called the Clanking Dragon, nestled near a small marketplace, with a sprawling village on the other side, boasting half a hundred small white houses and a small stone sept. 

As Tormund was settling the horses with the stableboy, Jon ventured inside, finding the inn nearly full, with patrons chatting eagerly while the tavern wench was skilfully weaving around the tables, bringing over food and taking orders. The hazy air was thick with the smell of freshly cooked food and woodsmoke. 

Jon lowered his hood, and his pale, sinister features quickly attracted the eyes of many. He merely met their gaze, and they all faltered, turning their heads away and whispering in hushed tones. Jon could feel the fear settling like a shroud in the smoky air. 

“Benefactor!” 

The familiar voice startled Jon. Surely enough, it was Daeron, that odd priest, waving them over from a table by the open shutter. He was as thin as ever, but his movements had far more vigour, and the kindly smile on his face was genuine. New, roughspun robes of some plain brown fabric adorned his shoulders, simple but surprisingly clean. His dirt-caked feet still peeked out from the hems of his robes—he was still barefoot.

The feeling of danger the man gave him was even more than before, and yet… there was not even the faintest shred of malice. Daeron truly wasn’t simple. But whatever secrets this queer priest held, Jon didn’t think much of them—their relationship was merely that of strangers, and a pious man being grateful to his saviour was no odd thing.

After a moment’s hesitation, Jon stepped forth. 

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said lightly. 

Daeron lifted a cup of ale in greeting. “It seems we’re fated to meet, benefactor. Come, come, join me and let us share bread and salt!” 

Jon glanced at the food on the table as he sat down. Simple mutton stew, with pieces of dark bread to scoop it with. Bread and salt were a custom of hospitality, but they also held a simpler meaning when men met on the road—friendship.

He dipped a piece of bread in the salt and bit into it. It was hardy and bland in taste, but Jon swallowed it quickly. The serving girl came over, a dimple-cheeked maid on the cusp of womanhood, fluttering her eyes at him with a shy smile. 

Once, he would have been confused at the gesture, but he had seen the same look on Nala and Briar. Stifling a sigh, Jon ordered a serving of mutton stew for himself and Tormund, not sparing the girl a second glance, and she walked away with her shoulders sagging.

“Ah, youth,” Daeron lamented after swallowing a spoonful of soup. “You’re a cruel man, benefactor. The poor maiden needed comfort, yet you denied her so harshly—an ungodly matter.”

“Ungodly?” Jon let out a low laugh. “I thought you priests had sworn off women.”

“I’m not the best of priests, I’m afraid,” he said without an ounce of regret. “The spirit is strong, but the flesh is weak, prone to mortal temptations. Whenever I see a poor woman in need of comfort, I must do my part.”

Jon was struck speechless—Daeron was speaking such crooked words with an honest face. Worse still, he could feel the priest meant every word of it.

“Forget it. At least your fortune has turned for the better, Daeron.”

“It’s the gods’ will,” the priest said, nodding to himself. “I was lucky enough to meet a pregnant lady from House Wayn on the road and helped her deliver the babe safe and sound.”

Wayn… Jon struggled to remember the name, which meant they had left neither a great impact on history nor could they muster a great host. They weren’t a powerful house then—quite probably petty lords or landed knights.

“I would not have taken you for a man practised in the birthing of babes,” Jon said.

Daeron gave him a humble smile. “I wandered a lot in my youth, picking up some miscellaneous skills here and there.” 

The serving maid came with a platter of two steaming bowls and a small pitcher of ale and tried to catch Jon’s attention again, but he merely paid her two stags and ignored her until she finally gave up and left. 

Tormund came then, his face lighting up as he saw Daeron. 

“Still barefoot, old man?” Tormund greeted.

Daeron gave him an amused smile. “Young Tormund. I see the road has only made you livelier.”

“It’s been interesting enough,” the boy admitted. “But old man, I see you’ve changed your garments. Why not get a pair of boots, too?”

“Thousands of years ago, in the far side of the world, in Yi Ti, when the first kingdoms of men were still young, a young boy was tossed into a fire pit for believing in the stars, sentenced to a slow, painful death by burning. But his piety was so great that even the burning coals took pity on him, and he remained unharmed until the flames died off. The magistrate who had ordered him to death was also moved, and let him go.”

Tormund scratched his nose. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“To go barefoot is a sign of devotion in the Starry Church. I might be a poor priest, but that does not stop me from being devoted!”

“You’re weird, old man,” the boy muttered, shaking his head in exasperation. 

Daeron’s mouth twitched, but the amiable smile was quick to return, though it was a bit strained this time. 

“Enough chatter, let’s eat.”

The next morning, after Jon finally awakened the snoring Tormund with a bucket of cold water, they finally prepared to leave. Just as they mounted their horses, Daeron joined them, saddling a spirited donkey, once again smiling kindly at them.

“May I travel with you, benefactor?”

“Do you even know our destination?” Jon shot back.

Daeron’s face grew uncharacteristically grim. “No, but I can see you feel it too.”

“Feel what?”

“The world has changed, Lord Snow.” Daeron’s purple eyes glimmered with something dangerous. “And I can hear the drums of war beating in the distance.”

Tormund picked his ears clean and warily looked around. “What drums?”

Jon grew cautious immediately. Even with the changes he had heard on the road, he knew the war with Blackfyre was inevitable. Though, many could deduce the same, considering it was not the first time a Blackfyre had set his sights on the Iron Throne.

“Benefactor probably knows.” A mysterious smile tugged at Daeron’s lips. “As for the other reason why I wish to follow you… I think it’s interesting.” His purple eyes flicked from the scabbard on Jon’s belt to the wrap on his back. “A spellforged blade and a great dragonbone warbow are rare on their own, and even rarer together. A sign of fate and no small turmoil.”

“Any sword is a sign of turmoil and a herald of death,” Jon said coolly, suppressing the urge to reach for Dark Sister’s hilt. “Spellforged or not, every sword is forged with the sole purpose of taking the life of another, and war bows are no different.”

Daeron’s gaze only sharpened. “And for those words, I want to follow you even more, benefactor. Now I know for certain I will be neither idle nor bored by your side.”

Jon studied the priest, trying to discern his intentions, but the man only gave him another unreadable smile, meeting his gaze without an ounce of hesitation. This was not someone he knew like Tormund, but the priest had a trick or two up his belt and would be quite helpful. As for bad intentions?

A skinchanger didn’t fear betrayal. The moment his companions looked at him with malice or ill intent, he would sense it. As eccentric as this priest was, he had no reason to scheme against a nameless Northern bastard. 

Daeron was unarmoured and unarmed, save for the gnarly staff slung over his shoulder, which softened him further to the idea. 

“I’m not very interested in your Starry gods,” Jon warned. “Nor any preaching. If you come with us, we won’t slow down, nor will we entertain any sermons.”

Daeron gave him a hurried wave, as if to dispel his concerns. “That’s fine. I did say I’m no great priest. If the time and place are right for it, I can enlighten others to the glory of the Stars, but if it’s not convenient… there’s no hurry. No hurry at all, benefactor. This will not be a loss for you. I studied under the finest scholars of Yin in my youth, and have some knowledge of medicine, foraging, skinning, tanning, forging, stitching, farming, star-reading…”

The list grew longer with every next breath.

Jon stifled a groan. He was not eager to have another travel companion, but he couldn’t quite figure out a proper reason to chase away the glib-tongued priest, especially if he was half as skilled as he claimed.

“Do as you wish,” he said at the end, pulling his hood back as his steed trotted outside.

As they approached the king’s ford, the river passageway that connected the kingsroad, the trains of merchants grew longer and longer, and their speed slowed down until it came to a complete halt the moment they heard the roar of the river. All were grim-faced at the delay, and some even gritted their teeth and turned their mules the other way.

Jon urged his steed forth and rode out to a balding man, swearing under his breath as he rode a cart of cabbages, and his companions followed.

“Good day, my good man,” Jon greeted. The man only gave him a once-over and a wary nod. “Is something the matter with the ford?”

“It’s the Darrys, ser,” the peddler spat. “Ser Marston Darry and a score of soldiers have blocked the way, demanding passage of arms from the travelling knights, and hefty tolls from the merchants who wish to cross. Now my produce will rot, those damned crooks!”

Swearing under his nose, he whipped his mule forward.

“We won’t be passin’ anytime soon,” called another merchant garbed in silks. “A hedge knight attempted to duel his way through this morning; three knights rose to the challenge, roughing him up. He was stripped bare, his old courser taken.”

“Passage of arms?” Tormund perked up. “What’s that?”

“You must defeat all foes for the right to pass,” Jon said, brows furrowing. “If you lose, you have to leave your arms and armour behind. Perhaps even your coin, depending on the knight’s mood, and if the fighting turns particularly cruel, even your life.”

Tormund frowned. “What’s the difference between that and bandits?”

Jon wheeled his steed around. “Not much. Though they probably have Lord Darry’s approval and backing for it. Even if they don’t, he’ll back his own men over merchants and hedge-knights, and bringing the matter to Lord Tully for arbitration will be costly, time-consuming and might not yield a satisfactory result. Let’s go.”

He was confident enough in dealing with three or four armoured men and a knight, but twenty? Impossible without revealing his skinchanging skills. And Brynden had taught him that skinchangers were met with distrust, outright suspicion and hostility on this side of the Wall.

As they rode away, his squire turned to him. “So the line between banditry and toll-taking is a lordly title?”

“You wouldn’t be wrong to claim so.” It was Daeron who responded. “But bandits will take it all, even your life, leaving only a cold corpse behind, while these toll-takers and aspirants still have to keep the king’s peace and cannot take too much lest they attract the king’s gaze. But the road forth is now closed for us. What do we do now, benefactor?” 

“Call me Jon.” He rubbed his chin. “And there are more shallow crossings along the Trident. Darry surely can’t block them all. The closest ford ought to be upstream, perhaps a full day’s hard ride from here—and if that doesn’t work, we’ll search for a proper ferry.”

“I think they called it the King’s Ford,” Daeron was saying as they rode on a winding road upstream the next day.

The road here was thinner and rougher still, and they barely saw any passing merchants.

“I know it by another name,” Jon murmured. “The Ruby Ford.”

Daeron’s face lit up. “I haven’t heard that one. Is it some interesting legend?”

Jon gave him a lazy shrug. “You can say so. Once upon a time, there was a fierce battle in the ford. The opposing commanders met in the shallows, eager to decide the outcome on the spot. They were evenly matched for a time, but in the end, the fiercer warrior won, slamming his warhammer in the chest of his foe with such fury that the breastplate caved in, and its encrusted rubies scattered in the Trident.”

“Warhammer?” Tormund’s eyes lit up. “When’ll you teach me how to wield one?”

“I can start teaching you tonight.” The corners of Jon’s lips twitched. “It’s not much different from a bludgeon save for the crow’s beak. But don’t get your hopes up. That fierce commander wielded a great beast of a hammer forged from a solid chunk of steel bigger than your head that even I’d probably struggle to lift. Common warhammers will glance off a breastplate, denting it slightly at best, and a strike to the helm might stun a man—or perhaps snap his neck if you’re strong enough or ahorse.”

“Bah,” his squire spat. “What a load of horseshit. Such a hammer ought to weigh at least three stone. Only a giant can wield something so heavy and not grow tired.”

Tormund was not wrong, but the Demon of the Trident was half a giant, though one that had grown fat and decadent by the time Jon laid eyes on him.

“A most interesting tale,” the priest said, his face alight with fascination. “Even I had not heard it before.”

Because it hasn’t happened yet. With how things have changed, it might never happen. 

“It’s just something I heard a long time ago,” Jon said instead, waving away his words. “Maybe it’s all made up.”

As they approached the not-yet-famous Ruby Ford, Jon scouted ahead with Bark and frowned.

He had been wrong—a Darry knight and a dozen men had blocked this ford too. Blocking one of the crossings of the Trident was fine, but two—perhaps even more—was too bold even for House Darry, no matter how much royal favour they have. At the start, House Darry would perhaps garner no small amount of supplies and coin for it, but such tactics were not without drawbacks. The more days such tolls were taken, the less willing merchants and traders would be to pass through this land, and the losses would outweigh any quick gains.

Something urgent must have happened for them to act this way. 

Had the king called the banners, forcing eager lords to rush for quick supplies before a campaign?

That wouldn’t be so bad, too, but they would need to hasten to King’s Landing. 

Soon, Jon and his group neared the Ruby Ford and saw two wheelhouses waiting, along with a handful of men-at-arms and two knights in lobstered steel crowded together, one with a Whent blazon, the other with the black toad of Vypren. They were talking in hushed tones and gesticulating eagerly, so Bark couldn’t quite hear, but he didn’t need to anyway. 

“Damn it,” Tormund cursed as he squinted in the distance. “Are those wretches blocking our way again?”

“It seems so,” Jon mused. 

“We can still try to find a ferry,” Daeron said, face thoughtful.

“Ferry?” Tormund scoffed. “Waste o’ time. The river is a bit wide, but we can swim through.”

Jon’s mouth twitched. “The shallows are probably all guarded by Darry men from the confluence to the Bay of Crabs, and if you wish to swim through the deep, cold rapids of the Trident at least a hundred yards wide…” He reached out to pat Tormund’s shoulder. “Well, I wish you good fortune.”

Even though the cold would not sap his strength, Jon wouldn’t dare to undergo such a challenge. He had swum in the rapids of the White Knife before, and just the swift, relentless current was enough to drain your strength—and that was the narrower portion of the current at the time. Merely swimming through the river was not enough, either. They still had horses and supplies that needed to cross, too. 

“I think that group is planning to accept the passage of arms,” Daeron murmured, pointing at the men clustered by the wheelhouses. “Perhaps we can join them.”

He was right, and their arrival did not go unnoticed.

The moment they approached, one of the knights mounted his steed and rode over. He had a hardy, scarred face and stony eyes that studied Jon and his group coldly. His gaze lingered on the dragonbone bow wrap for a long moment.

“I am Ser Aren of Bechester,” he announced loudly, his voice gruff. “Who might I have the pleasure of meeting, ser…?”

“Jon Snow of the North.”

Ser Aren’s eyes narrowed, with caution instead of the contempt that Jon expected.

“How good are you with that bow of yours?”

“Passable,” Jon said with a lazy shrug. “I can hold my own with a sword, too.”

Tormund half-coughed, half-laughed, quickly pressing a hand to his mouth under the knight’s fierce gaze. 

“Ser Loran Darry has blocked the ford and will not allow any to pass without a hefty toll or a passage of arms—”

“I’ll fight,” Jon said flatly. “I assume you plan to band together for a group challenge. Let’s not waste any more time. Rules?”

Author’s Endnote: I’m not quite satisfied with this chapter. I wanted to write more, but the scenes viciously resisted me all the way through.